Sign up to save your podcasts
Or
Share I knocked on hell’s door (Marcella Boccia)
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Share to email
Share to Facebook
Share to X
Or
I knocked on hell’s door (Marcella Boccia)
I knocked on hell’s door (Marcella Boccia)
I knocked on Hell’s door with winter-knuckled hands,three times, slow, like the toll of a broken bell.The wood was warm—sweat-slicked, pulsing like something alive.No voice called, no key turned,only silence, thick as blood in the throat,only the scent of burnt prayers and Sunday sins,curling like smoke from a lover’s mouth.I pressed my ear against the grain,heard laughter, low and familiar,heard my own name, whispered backin the voice I buried last December.The handle kissed my palm like a promise,but I turned, boots heavy with ghosts,walked back into the cold,where even the wind refuses my shadow.
I knocked on Hell’s door with winter-knuckled hands,three times, slow, like the toll of a broken bell.The wood was warm—sweat-slicked, pulsing like something alive.No voice called, no key turned,only silence, thick as blood in the throat,only the scent of burnt prayers and Sunday sins,curling like smoke from a lover’s mouth.I pressed my ear against the grain,heard laughter, low and familiar,heard my own name, whispered backin the voice I buried last December.The handle kissed my palm like a promise,but I turned, boots heavy with ghosts,walked back into the cold,where even the wind refuses my shadow.
View all episodes
By MARCELLA BOCCIAI knocked on hell’s door (Marcella Boccia)
I knocked on Hell’s door with winter-knuckled hands,three times, slow, like the toll of a broken bell.The wood was warm—sweat-slicked, pulsing like something alive.No voice called, no key turned,only silence, thick as blood in the throat,only the scent of burnt prayers and Sunday sins,curling like smoke from a lover’s mouth.I pressed my ear against the grain,heard laughter, low and familiar,heard my own name, whispered backin the voice I buried last December.The handle kissed my palm like a promise,but I turned, boots heavy with ghosts,walked back into the cold,where even the wind refuses my shadow.
I knocked on Hell’s door with winter-knuckled hands,three times, slow, like the toll of a broken bell.The wood was warm—sweat-slicked, pulsing like something alive.No voice called, no key turned,only silence, thick as blood in the throat,only the scent of burnt prayers and Sunday sins,curling like smoke from a lover’s mouth.I pressed my ear against the grain,heard laughter, low and familiar,heard my own name, whispered backin the voice I buried last December.The handle kissed my palm like a promise,but I turned, boots heavy with ghosts,walked back into the cold,where even the wind refuses my shadow.